


paradigm

by oryx



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asher delves a little deeper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paradigm

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i, uh, don't fully understand transistor. (if you claim to understand it 100% i will assume you are a liar)  
> asher needed a maiden name (unmarried gentleman name?) so i just gave him "edland" at random. no significance there  
> title taken from paradigm city from the big o, because if transistor wasn't somewhat inspired by the big o i'll eat my hat

The sky is purple today.

 

He watches the sunrise from his balcony, the yellows and golds slowly fading into pinks, the pinks into soft lilac and then, finally, into vivid violet. A few wisps of grey cloud stand out against the purple, bringing the faint smell of rain along with them – rain that won’t come, not today, because it is not in the forecast.

 

There’s a building missing, directly across the street from his flat. An antique shop. He visited there only once before, seeking out a gift for an aging relative, but feels oddly saddened by its disappearance nonetheless. In its place is a winding cobblestone path lined with fiberglass trees and strung with glittering lights, which curves down past the pavilion towards the Eastern Promenade in the distance.

 

On his handheld OVC terminal, he opens up the map feature for his Sector.

 

‘The Pavilion Pathway,’ reads the colourful text in the corner of the screen, ‘is best known for its lovely view of several award-winning residential gardens. A stroll along its quaint thoroughfare is sure to reinvigorate both the body and the mind.’

 

Asher looks down at the screen in quiet disbelief, mouthing the words to himself. ‘The crown jewel of Sector Three,’ it says. ‘A well-known landmark for every citizen.’

 

As if this is the way it has been all along.

 

.

 

.

 

His mother tends to sigh when he asks about the past.

 

“Oh, Asher,” she says, staring at him exasperatedly over the rim of her cocktail glass. “What does it matter? The past is in the past for a reason. It’s the future you should be thinking about.” She nods sagely. “And I was little more than a child when we came here, you know. I don’t remember much before Cloudbank.”

 

“You don’t seem to remember much at all,” he murmurs. Questions about her grade school days, her time at university, how she met his father – all are answered in the vaguest of terms, or worse yet, with a dismissive wave of her hand. She keeps photographs on the mantel, but often cannot recall the names of the people in them. _Those were wild times, Asher,_ she’ll say with a laugh. _I floated through them in a daze, if you get my drift. How am I supposed to remember all the little details?_

 

“Hmm?” she says, distracted by the holo-mag she’s reading. “What was that?”

 

“… It’s nothing, Mother,” he says, and forces a smile. “Would you like another drink?”

 

.

 

.

 

“Is this for an article?” the man asks, glancing up from the materials strewn across his workbench. Mr. Augustus Lewin, age sixty-four, a long-time creator of dreadfully unpopular avant-garde sculptures. What he lacks in money and renown he makes up for in sheer passion for his art.

 

“Ah, yes,” Asher lies. People, he’s found, are more likely to part with sensitive information when Official Journalism is involved. “I’m considering making the switch from Current Events to something a little more… freeform, and I was hoping to start off with a history piece.”

 

“I see.” Lewin leans back in his seat, a contemplative set to his features. “What is it you want to know, exactly?”

 

“Everything,” Asher says. “Anything note-worthy you can remember from your childhood, your teenage years, your twenties. Laws that were passed. Fashion trends. Scientific discoveries. Who was popular in the music world, the theatre, the art exhibitions.”

 

Lewin raises a bemused eyebrow. “Gracious. Wouldn’t it be easier to just visit the library? I’m sure the books there would be of more help than any half-remembered thing I might tell you.”

 

“I’m afraid that’s the problem,” Asher says. He fixes Lewin with a meaningful stare. “I have been through every single history book in the library, every catalogued news clipping, but there is little, if any, information on the history of Cloudbank prior to ‘17. The entire decade of the ‘20s is lacking as well. The timeline just seems to… peter out.”

 

Lewin’s eyes widen. “You… you don’t say? That is, ah, rather odd. Someone must’ve gotten lazy, writing those old things.” He laughs, but there is a half-hearted quality to it.

 

Mr. Lewin remembers the year the feathered hat craze swept over Goldwalk. The exact day Junction Jan’s opened its doors for the first time, at its old location in Sector Six. The conviction and sentencing of the Highrise Burglar, real name Sasha Renard, who had occupied one of the few cells in Cloudbank Prison until the place was done away with in ‘32. _Replaced with a rather lovely park,_ Mr. Lewin says. _Which was all well and good, in my opinion. That jail was nothing but a waste of taxpayer’s money anyhow._

 

“… It’s strange, though,” he says, with a pensive frown. “Thinking back on it… My own wedding day is a complete blur. And the day my father left for the Country – I can’t recall that either. Not his face, or. Or anything.” He shakes his head, looking suddenly rather troubled. “You’d think those memories would stay with me, if nothing else.”

 

Asher watches him for a moment before glancing away.

 

“Yes,” he says softly. “You’d think.”

 

.

 

.

 

Ms. Emmaline Werner, age seventy, remembers receiving her very own motorbike as a graduation present from her parents (and promptly totaling the thing during a wild midnight joyride). She remembers being twenty-six and seeing a musician called ‘Velvet’ live at the Empty Set. She remembers the day Yvette Isaacs – up-and-coming fashion model and actress, with a bright future ahead of her – skipped town and never returned.

 

“Oh, but my memory has gotten so spotty as of late,” Werner says. “If it’s hard facts you’re looking for, young man, you’d be better off asking someone else. My old friend Jameson Finch, maybe? Mind like a steel trap, that one.” She tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. “But then again… I suppose he retired a few years back, didn’t he? Living it up in that garish ‘summer home’ of his with no worries in the world. And Kitty Ulrich – she went to the Country not three months ago.

 

“It’s… a bit odd, now that I think about it. Most everyone I used to know is gone. Some of them just… went away, without so much as a goodbye. And you know, every day I receive one of those adverts, telling me all about the ‘benefits of retirement.’” She laughs delicately behind her teacup. “As if the city itself doesn’t want me around, now that I’ve gotten up there in the years. Suppose I can’t fault my old friends for leaving.”

 

Asher says nothing. His skin is prickling – there’s something strangely unsettling about her words.

 

“Oh, but if it’s policy you want to know about,” she continues, “I can think of one person who might be helpful. Though there will be the matter of getting in touch with him. He is a very busy man. But I may be able to put a good word in for you, hmm? I’d like to think I still carry _some_ weight around this place.”

 

“That would be very kind of you,” Asher says. “His name is…?”

 

Ms. Werner blinks. “Why, Grant Kendrell, of course.”

 

.

 

.

 

Everyone in the city knows the name Grant Kendrell. The greatest Administrator Cloudbank has ever had, people say, and it’s not as if Asher can disagree with that.

 

But all the same, he’s always thought there was something _off_ about the man. No one can be that regal, that flawlessly composed, and not have some sort of secret buried deep down. Chalk it up to the innate suspicion of a journalist, if you must. But if there’s one thing this city has taught Asher, it’s that no one is ever as perfect as they seem.

 

Sitting across a desk from the man only increases Asher’s doubts tenfold. Kendrell’s office is simple yet elegant, a vase of red flowers and a painting of a snowy landscape the only real decorations. He looks at Asher with mild interest over steepled fingers, and Asher can’t help but notice (not for the first time) that his eyes are a rather intense shade of grey.

 

“I read your articles, you know,” he says.

 

Asher stares at him. “Really, sir? … Why? They’re just fluff pieces.”

 

“No need to call me ‘sir,’ Mr. Edland. I’m not one for such strict formalities. And you’re right. The content of your articles is not particularly interesting to me. It’s more… the manner in which they’re written? You have quite a way with words.”

 

“Thank you,” Asher says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Despite Kendrell’s genial tone, he has a bad feeling about the direction this conversation is headed.

 

“You are… astonishingly popular, aren’t you, for a writer of simple ‘fluff pieces.’ People look forward to your articles every week. They decide whether to attend events based solely on your praise or condemnation. It’s impressive, really. If you were to ever branch out and write about something a little more… _controversial_ … Well. One can only envision the sway you might hold over the popular opinion. But you seemed content with your lot at the OVC. I assumed there was no reason to keep an eye on you.

 

“So imagine my surprise,” he continues, “upon being contacted by my old acquaintance Ms. Werner, telling me that Asher Edland is writing a piece on the half-forgotten history of Cloudbank. I have to wonder: what inspires your interest in this particular topic? Simple curiosity, or…?”

 

“I prefer to think of it as a desire for the truth,” Asher says coolly.

 

Kendrell raises an eyebrow. And then, oddly enough, he smiles.

 

Asher has seen the man rubbing elbows at countless galas, watched him give countless speeches, but there’s always been something false about his smiles. Something artificial and insincere, without any real emotion. Seeing him smile so genuinely now is rather intimate, in a way – glimpsing the human side of this seemingly-superhuman person.

 

“That’s a good answer,” Kendrell says. “But also, I’m afraid, a damning one. You understand, don’t you? ‘Truth seeking’ is a rather dangerous hobby. While your current topic of study may not be a problem – and in fact, I have a vested interest in it myself – if your attention were to be drawn elsewhere…” He levels Asher with a pointed stare. “Then we might have an issue.”

 

Asher’s grip tightens on the armrest of the chair, his pulse quickening. A kind of wary anticipation is settling hot beneath his skin. “Is that an admission of guilt, Mr. Kendrell?” he asks. “That you are purposefully keeping things from the citizens of Cloudbank? That there is some sort of… _secret_ you have chosen not to disclose?”

 

Kendrell leans back in his seat, his smile more pronounced now, studying Asher’s face intently. After a long, thoughtful pause, he asks:

 

“Would you like to go out to dinner sometime, Mr. Edland?”

 

Asher blinks.

 

Out of all the possible outcomes for this meeting that had just flashed through his mind – being hauled off for “questioning,” perhaps, or arriving home to find his room trashed and his research mysteriously vanished – being asked out to dinner had not been among them.

 

“It will be easier for us to talk in a more relaxed environment, I think,” Kendrell is saying. “How does tomorrow sound? Nine o’clock, at Renata’s?”

 

Before his mind can truly catch up, Asher is replying with a startled “yes.”

 

.

 

.

 

Renata’s is well-known as one of the finest restaurants Cloudbank has to offer. Reservations are usually made at least two months in advance. But there are benefits, it seems, to being as much of a household name as Grant Kendrell. Benefits that include the best table in the house, set apart from the other guests, with a view of the city spread out below like a dark canvas, speckled with light in every imaginable colour.

 

For a time, their conversation remains casual. Kendrell asks him about his family, his work, his interests beyond journalism. But as the night winds down, both of them with two glasses of wine under their belts, Asher can see something in Kendrell’s face change. The pragmatic politician fading away into something else entirely.

 

“You know, I invited you here,” he says, “because I think we are the same.”

 

Asher pauses mid-sip and lowers his wine glass slowly. “How do you mean?”

 

“I think you understand the truth about Cloudbank,” Kendrell continues. “That, beneath its guise of constant change, this city is…” He trails off, frowning, as if the right word were evading him.

 

“Stagnating?” Asher offers.

 

Kendrell’s eyes widen, and his expression seems to soften, then, that faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he says. “Precisely. … Majority rule seems to be an excellent idea at first glance, doesn’t it? ‘Government by all.’ Shouldn’t that be what we strive for? A society in which everyone’s voice is heard? But in reality... ”

 

“In reality, people are idiots,” Asher says.

 

Kendrell chokes out a startled laugh, eyes creasing endearingly around the edges, and Asher can’t help but stare. “That is certainly one way of putting it,” he says. “Personally, I prefer to think of it like this: Cloudbank is a city brimming with talented individuals. But talent, unfortunately, does not always equal intelligence. And it’s rarer still to find a mind suited for politics and bureaucracy. A select few of us are meant to lead. Others – the majority – are meant to follow. And if you were to put too much power in the hands of the many… Well. You’ve seen for yourself the endless cycle of so-called ‘change’ that they inflict on this city day in and day out.”

 

“…Why are telling me all this?” Asher asks softly. It’s thrilling, to finally meet someone else who is _awake_ – who understands what he’s been thinking all along. But that alone is not enough to set him fully at ease. Here is a man who knows more about the inner workings of Cloudbank than anyone else, who keeps its secrets closer to the vest than any Administrator rightfully should.

 

Kendrell reaches a hand into his pocket and removes a small object – a terminal upload drive. He places it on the table and slides it toward Asher.

 

“This,” he says, “is a log of almost every amendment or addition to Cloudbank’s legislature in the past three decades. With a few things I remember from before my time in office, as well. I trust you may find it useful for your ‘history project’?”

 

Asher peers down at the drive on the table, then slowly lifts his gaze to stare at Kendrell incredulously.

 

“You can’t be serious,” he says. “You wrote up all of that yourself? And you’re just… giving it to me?”

 

Kendrell nods. He runs a thumb along the line of his jaw, contemplative, and Asher finds himself watching the movements of his hands. “It was, oh, fifteen years ago. That I first began to notice my memory failing me. I realized that there were things from my childhood – important things – that were just… _gone_ from my mind. I talked to others and found that they were experiencing the same, but strangely enough they seemed to think little of it. I was the only one concerned about our memories slipping away en masse. But I had no clue what was causing it, or how to stop it. The only thing I could do, in the end, was write everything down and hope for the best.

 

“And now you come along, saying you’d like to uncover the truth. Which is something I would like very much as well. I’d like my memories back, above all else, but… I fear that might be an impossibility.” The look he gives Asher is heavy with significance, and he lowers his voice to a murmur. “You see it too, don’t you? The connection between the missing history and Cloudbank’s state of near-constant flux? How the more this city is altered, the less we seem to remember about what came before.”

 

Asher swallows hard. He has considered it, yes, but he’s never entertained the idea for long. Perhaps the implications were too unsettling.

 

“That,” Kendrell says, gesturing towards the upload drive, “is a gift. No catch. No strings attached. But if I might impose on you a bit longer, Mr. Edland… There is something I’d very much like to show you.

 

“Something that may change your mind about this city’s future.”

 

.

 

.

 

There are few in the city who are unacquainted with Ms. Sybil Reisz. The woman is akin to a social hurricane – hosting fabulous parties, attending every premiere, her smiling face plastered on the covers of innumerable fashion magazines.

 

Royce Bracket, on the other hand, is a man known mostly by name. He’s a loner, people say. Not overly skilled in human interaction. Shuts himself up in his lovely manor house for weeks at a time, doing who knows what in his laboratory.

 

So it’s strange, to see the two of them together – Reisz chattering away as if they were old friends, Bracket ignoring her soundly, his attention focused on his terminal screen. They both stop what they’re doing and turn to stare when Asher and Kendrell step out of the elevator.

 

“…Who’s this?” Bracket asks.

 

“Mr. Asher Edland,” Kendrell says. “I’m giving him a tour.”

 

Kendrell and Bracket hold each other’s gaze for a moment, having what looks like a silent conversation, and Bracket’s nonchalance slowly morphs into a dismayed grimace.

 

“Oh, you have _got_ to be fucking with me,” he mutters. “Really, Grant? You’ve always been weak for pretty faces, but this… this is an all-time low.”

 

“Ah, I know you!” Reisz exclaims. She glides over, white-blonde curls bouncing, and extends a gloved hand in greeting. When Asher shakes it he finds her grip to be surprisingly strong. “You write for the OVC, don’t you? In the Current Events department? Your articles are so… _charming_.”

 

“Thank you,” Asher says. Her tone of voice makes it sound like an insult, and yet her expression is one of absolute sincerity.

 

“ _Three people_ , Grant,” Bracket is saying, slumped back in his chair, staring vacantly up at the ceiling. “It’s the perfect number, you said. Going on and on about everything working best in threes. ‘The strength and sublimity of the triangle.’ That’s not a paraphrase – that’s a quote.” He throws his hands up in defeat. “What’s the point? Why should I even bother taking you seriously, if you’re just going to undermine your own ridiculous rules?”

 

“Don’t mind him,” Reisz says with a smile. “He hates it when anything unexpected happens. Now, my apologies if this seems rude or out of the blue, but I’m dreadfully curious… How old are you, exactly?”

 

“…Twenty-six,” Asher says, somewhat taken aback.

 

“Oh, wonderful,” Bracket mutters. “He’s twenty-six. Why not just invite some bored university kids in as well? Maybe some teenagers too, while you’re at it.”

 

“Twenty-six?” Reisz echoes. Her lips twitch, as if she were trying not to laugh, and she turns to Kendrell with an eyebrow raised. “Goodness, Grant. This is a new record, I do believe. That’s what – a twenty-seven year age difference between the two of you? He wasn’t even _born_ when you were his age. What _will_ the neighbors say?”

 

“It’s not like that, Sybil,” Kendrell says, an amused glint in his eye. “Now if you’ll please excuse us.”

 

He puts a hand – solid and warm – on the small of Asher’s back, leading him down the long hallway to the right.

 

“I don’t remember agreeing to this, Grant,” Bracket calls after them, but his voice fades away as they round a corner.

 

“I am sorry for all that,” Kendrell says. “They are rather insufferable people.”

 

(His fond smile gives away his true feelings, but Asher chooses not to comment.)

 

.

 

.

 

They stand in front of a unmarked, darkened doorway.

 

“What’s inside?” Asher asks.

 

“Something that will change this city,” Kendrell answers. “And by that I mean _real_ change. A better Cloudbank, a more logical one, with both a future and a past.”

 

He steps into the open doorway, vanishing through it, and Asher hurries to follow suit.

 

The room feels massive, though it is hard to tell for certain, as the walls and floor blend together into one, a shifting kaleidoscope of dark, bruise-like colours.

 

“Tell me, Mr. Edland,” Kendrell says, his voice echoing hollowly. “Have you ever heard of the Camerata?”

 

(Somewhere down below, there is a faint orange light.)


End file.
